Time
by ColorM
Summary: She promises to save him, for him. Ally x Dez.


**AN:**

I guess I should explain how this idea crossed my mind, but I honestly have no clue. I just wanted a story where Ally doesn't neccesarily have to kiss someone to fall in love; the small things are what draws into an unconcious affair. Although, I wouldn't say it's an affair, nowhere near it, but she does fall in love with someone she isn't supposed to. I guess that sums up everything.

Warning! This story hits very sensitive feats about cancer and carries a major character death. I highly suggest you don't read it. _Please. _You're not going to listen, are you? Okay.

* * *

**Time**

She wants to scream, but she can't.

Ten years―and counting―she never took the time to realize how important her friend was to her_. . ._until she realizes she's losing him.

She stops seeing those freckles and plaid pants. She stops seeing those big eyes and thin lips, nor hears those silly jabs and terrible quips. She never sees him again. Dez. She never sees him through all the years and it takes time, but she never catches on the tiny, missing fill of the void in her chest. She never realizes what she had, until it's on the verge of disappearance, until she realizes it may never come back.

Not to sound overly dramatic―though Ally figures it's impossible because this is a serious situation that isn't to be taken lightly―but she misses him so much more than she thought she would. She never really knew how much he meant to her. She never really knew how important he was to her. He had helped her way too many times to count and he had encouraged her. He made her happy, when she thought it to be the worst of her days and gave her the smiles that stung. What more could anyone ask for in a friend? What more could anyone actually need?

After her and Austin―through shambles and chaos―got together, the first person she thought of was Dez. She was so happy and, and thankful. He had helped her realize her obvious, remnant crush and even sometimes was her shoulder, when she needed him to be.

He was her best friend.

Somewhere in between the years, she never really realized the importance and simple fact of it all. She hadn't weighed how vital the tiny relationship was, it didn't seem so much to measure. Calls and text messages went unanswered after she moved, Ally heard nothing of him―after she moved to New York with Austin and lived her lifelong, perfected dream―and somehow she didn't weigh in and ponder the importance of keeping her friendship alive, of showing him how thankful she is to have him in her life.

Somehow, she forgot about him.

How, how is that possible? She can't even blink an eye, there's this tiny utterance on the other end―this voice―telling her that he's sick and that no one―no one is there, no one is there with him, for him. He's alone. _Alone!_

Dez is alone, despite the fact that he never left anyone alone. _How, how_ in the world is that possible?

The clock on her phone, somewhere between the thoughts, strikes ten and she makes this unknowing, silencing promise to save him, before ten, to save him in ten months, before he's gone, from her, from Austin, from them, from everyone.

She promises to save him, for him.

_pray God you can cope_

His parents aren't here.

The first thought that slams into her head when she arrives, when she meets eyes with a ginger strapped in pale sheets―his parents are gone. She whips her head side to side, trying to see if maybe she missed something, scanning the small, minimalist hospital room. There's only a greeting of white walls and a small table shrouded into a corner. She sees no one and her shock rushes to her eyes and mouth, before she can retain them and brush them into nicer words that flash by. She speaks like a quick shot of acid.

"Where are your parents?"

Austin and Dez snap at her, their necks quick and vision augmented. She catches the melancholy in the look they're giving her, but she doesn't understand it. The ginger simply locks his heavy eyes at her and then shuts his brown irises slowly, tiredly. He turns immediately and makes no statement of it. Austin, on the other hand, turns to the obvious ignorance in the room and says no more than three words. His own eyes filled with the same density as the ginger that prolongs his silence.

"They're dead."

_this woman's work_

"Are you thirsty?"

Her voice feels abrupt, like she's interrupted something though everything is filled in silence. Her fingers tap on the glass atop the bleak, white counter and she clicks her dry tongue. She doesn't know what to do or what to say, she guesses if she's thirsty so is he.

Austin leans on one foot and clicks his tongue, as if he seems to doubt the idea and flutters his dark eyes.

They've been in the hospital since they heard―Monday, Monday of last week―and they hardly get any sleep, nor do they want any with their friend in a condition like this. Ally doesn't even takes time to dress properly―the vibrant, pajama pants and white shirt she's strewn in seem to say so. Austin accompanies her with the same notion, his jeans slack on his hips. They don't sleep much anymore, and somewhere along the lines of their face, you can see the carved, deep circles around their eyes. Their hands clammy and skin cold, of all the time they've spent inside the glacial hospital taking its slow effect on them. Despite this, Ally knows she wouldn't want to spend her time anywhere else.

Dez shuffles and she hears a ruffle amongst the sheets. His ginger locks strewn across the pale, hospital pillows, brighter than the actual hue of his skin. There's this strange furrow of vexation, like the one he used to flash long ago and he eyes at her contemptuously. Perhaps, she shouldn't have asked?

"How'd you know?" He suddenly smiles, teeth and all. His eyes large with a glistening beam, like the sun flashing in a pair of human eyes.

She rubs against her pajama pants and smiles back at the freckled boy. Her eyelids are heavy with exhaustion and hope. Doubt and refrain disappearing as the sudden remembrance of a promise ripples through her. She might be able to save him.

"We'll say it was a feeling."

_Oh, it's hard on the man_

Austin cries one day.

Ally hears him during the midst of it all―she had left to get some pudding; because Dez enjoyed them so―his words stammering and sobs sputtering. He's crying violently and there's this ache of something in his voice. She doesn't know what it is―desperation, surrender, despondency, perhaps the need for auxiliaries? Her hands clamp around her mouth softly and she tries not to cry herself. She's never heard him so anguished and broken at the same time. She's never heard him speak of all this until now, until it hits him in front of his own friend.

"I'm sorry, Dez," his voice hitches, sobs dispersing the sentence into incoherence, "I'm sorry I wasn't here. I'm sorry I left you alone. I'm sorry that I'm such a bad―."

"Stop, Austin," she hears through the thick door, softly, in cracks, "stop it. It's okay."

His voice, Dez, is a tired one. Ally hears it against the doors―her heart not in condition to see the sight―and she can almost feel the exhaustion and hurt squeeze at her chest. She can almost feel how terribly unfair this is to both, two best friends that grew together, and it makes her feel pathetic in return. She's not suffering through anything; she's not going through any trials really. The girl can hear the cries and sobs of anger, exhaustion, and guilt―words they've said that are heavy. She feels all feelings and all emotions, but she feels mostly, poignantly… pathetic.

She's feels like a _pathetic_ little girl.

_Now his part is over_

"Ally," he starts, his voice rasp, a croak in the silence, "could you fluff my pillow?"

Her heart immediately clenches in her chest. She knows he's tired and nauseous. He looks exhausted―by the sound of soft rolling and quiet sighs―she can tell he hasn't slept. His eyes are covered in dark imprints of insomnia and the beads of sweat on his forehead glisten. Ally, pelted with sympathy, stands and presses her cold palms on the pillow beneath his scalp. There's this small ache in her that stings every time she sees him; his condition makes her feel lucky in comparison―it's a perverse thought. She smiles with her teeth and lets the cold bite at the edges of her lips, drying them. The conditioned air shakes her softly, but gently and she faces the boy who's cradled beneath her.

"Sure." Her voice coos lightly, like honey to his ears.

Austin stands behind her, eyes fluttering like a butterfly, dark, ominous circles around his eyes.

"_Uh_, I'll do it." He mumbles, his steps trudging forward to the bed. He hasn't slept in days― though the need for him here isn't vital―Ally thinks he's committing some kind of self-punishment. There's this string of disappointment and shame he's dangling over himself. Through the blue, vibrant shirt he wears and the jeans that slack, she catches the hairs of his skin rise―he's cold. He's cold and he doesn't say anything.

She feels his icy, pale palms next to hers on the pillow beneath their friend's skull, and she feels a surge of worry and concern.

He needs some rest.

_I know you've got a little life in you yet_

"Does anyone want to play a game?" Trish lowly suggests, whilst her hair remains a mess cascaded across her shoulder.

Ally doesn't agree or say anything―she never does, not before Dez―she waits for Dez' beam of excitement. Her eyes heavy as she watches, catching the sudden shuffle of the sheets spread across the mattress. Her head jolts and before she can say anything, he's already racing to the bathroom to empty his stomach's contents.

Trish gets scared, Ally can sense it. She sees the anxiety and the flash of concern swirl in her eyes. Though it seems distant to her, she feels the same way underneath it all. She feels like she's scared out of her mind and her heart beats sharply, like a knife in her chest every so often. The difference is she doesn't reveal it, she can't show it, because she can't do that to him. He's already scared out of his own mind. Dez is sick and he has no idea how to deal with it, because no one's walking him through it. This is all him―the sickness is only his and his to keep until it wins or it loses.

In a moment, she lifts from the blue chair. The heels she wears producing not a single sound against the floor. Her tracks are fast. There's no time to be slow or hesitant, he can't be alone, _shouldn't_.

She presses the softest hand on his back, as he purges and cries feebly at the same time. His back shudders underneath her fingertips and she notices how prominent, protruding his spinal cord is now. The toilet seat lies beneath his palms, as his fingers grasp at them and he arches over in pain she can't understand. The breath and swallows she evokes get worse and she tries to get a hold of herself. She can't do this to him, he doesn't deserve it.

"I'm sorry." He cries, laying his head on the back of his palm. "I'm sorry, Ally."

He puffs, shudders and she rubs his back in soothing circles that make him feel even worse about everything. Her tight bun that dangles behind her head, adorably, is smaller and smaller every time he sees her. She loses hair and gets paler and thins just like him―it makes him feel disgusting. She's not the one who's sick, he is. This isn't hers to win or lose―this isn't her sick and twisted game that life is playing, enforcing on her for the enjoyment of the year.

"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay." She whispers softly, and she continues to do so even as he cries into his palms.

He stops eventually.

_I know you've got a lot of strength left_

"I'm cold."

His teeth clatter violently and he clamps the sheets around his fingers.

She doesn't really know what to do, because there is no remedy. She definitely doesn't control the air conditioner of the hospital; leave it to be to the employees and staff. No one is here to aid her either; because Trish has grown a sudden fear of seeing him like this―she does not blame her for the act―and Austin―Austin spends all morning with Dez. He sits and never blinks, even as the bitter air around him bites at him. The boy hardly even takes it upon himself to eat, his figure growing slim as the days pass. He needs rest himself.

"I―I don't―" She says, before his voice cuts desperately, almost like a dagger into her hesitance.

"Please, Ally," he begs, his fingers clamping around the sheets nimbly.

Without reluctance, she snakes into the bed and wraps her arms around his shrunken, frail body. His locks collide against her chest, soft like ripped bird feathers. He shudders beneath her fingertips, but his clattering stops and his urgency decreases. She immediately feels relief and a strange sense of accommodation. He's warm, he's okay, and that's all that matters. Her head falls against his back slowly in exhaustion, his protruding bones against her skin.

"Are you, um, okay?"

He doesn't respond, instead his chest softly, rises and falls.

_I should be crying but I just can't let it show_

It happens often, most nights she snakes her way in and he sleeps, exhausted―she never tells Austin though.

_All the things we should've said that I never said_

"Hey, Ally?" he mumbles, against the sheets.

She hums softly into his hair, which faintly and very vaguely smells like vanilla. She thinks to tell him later of this. It doesn't seem like a good time anyway.

"You smell really good and you feel really good," he utters, she laughs quietly at this. She was just thinking about the same thing. "You know, like one of those teddy bears, except scented."

Ally wraps her small limbs around him, tighter, firmer, and hooks a small foot around his. She pretends and justifies that it's because she wants to make sure he's warm, but she actually doesn't know why she does it. Her fingers fiddle with his, carefully and delicately like a China doll. His skin is cold and clammy against hers; it brings her to squeeze her eyebrows in concern. She clings to him like an anchor and sometimes that's why she worries that if she loses him, she might lose a part of herself. She can't lose the small bits of him that she has inside of her.

Her hair is strewn and splattered across the pillows, she can sense his fingers playing with a strand―she never knew the distance was that close―and he rubs the locks between his fingertips like a shoe lace or a straw. His fingers enclose around the small strand and he holds it there, until he falls to sleep.

_All the things we should've given but I didn't_

The next morning, it's like she can still feel his fingers on her strands.

_Oh, darling, make it go, make it go away_

"Ally," Austin starts, "what if we lose him?"

She moves her gaze and some part of her chisels to ice. Her eyes are stoic with a haze of uncertainty. His question was rhetorical, _right_? He seriously cannot be asking her this. He knows that this isn't something they can even imagine, the image is enough to perturb. Her hair bounces in its hold, already lose, and she shakes as she turns to look at his frightened face. There's this anger in her rising like a ferocious fire and it burns every thought of refrain to ashes.

"How―how can you ask a question like that, Austin?" She stares, eyes filled with disdain and anger. The tight bun fell into heaps against her back. "We're not going to lose him."

"Ally, Ally―" he tries, sputtering, but she cuts him off by the steps and makes it into the bathroom. The door closes before his face harshly, the sudden wind it evokes like a cold punch in the stomach.

She falls to the floor quickly, her knees giving out before her. She thinks this notion may be enough; the notion of losing him may just give her enough reason to cry all together. She hasn't even remembered when she was allowed to cry in the vision of anyone else. Her knees clamp beneath her grasp, as her head collides against her arms. She lets her head fall slowly against her skin and takes in the bleak, pale shading in the bathroom. White—she feels sick when she sees white.

"Ally," she hears muffled through the door, "just look at the odds, okay? The doctor said it was a fifteen to―," her hands clasp around her ears desperately, because she does not want to hear it. She can't let it in.

The whole afternoon, Ally remains locked in and―for the first time in a long time―hopes there's some kind of a God, and that he's sided with her on the promise.

_Give me these moments_

"This is really good, Ally."

He says; his thin, skeletal palm shaking as the spoon lingers between his fingers. There's this notion in her head that maybe he's lying or sugarcoating things to make her feel better, but then she looks at him. She lets her eyes rest on him—his shrunken figure, his deep, dark circles around his eyes, his ginger hair that shrouds his forehead—and she remembers that he isn't that kind of a person. Sure sometimes he can be vaguely sarcastic, but he never lies. The thick, yellow substance floats in the plastic spoon between those brittle fingers and it doesn't take long before he slurps.

"Awh, thanks Dez." She says, though it mostly escapes like a coo.

His eyes flutter softly and swirls of brown flash brilliantly at her. There's something beautiful that she can't quite describe in his eyes—maybe the color of his irises or the way his eyes remind her of butterflies—but she drives her eyes away before she can tell what it is. "Thank you," he sniffles, his words as soft as feathers, "Ally."

She smiles faintly. "No problem."

_I should be crying, but I just can't let it show_

"It was an airplane thing." He abruptly begins, just as his body shifts and he turns beneath the covers.

His hair is aluminous in the dark, right above his eyes. They're—his irises—a gold kind of brown, briefly, and she sees traces of grieve in them. They flutter at her, like a butterfly again, softly and slowly. Ally gets wonder some staring at them and her fingers ponder at how the strands placed over his eyes could feel; she wishes she could touch his wings. The brunette curled next to him doesn't think she should be thinking of this so, but her eyes graze over his nose and his eyes that flutter every so often. It almost seems like it's not that bad of a notion, okay for a thought. Her lips part for a moment, and she remembers that he's telling her about something. The confusion strikes her again, like the first time, and she asks. "What?"

"The—when my—my pa—when my parents died!" He finally stutters out in vexation. His eyebrows knotted in frustration.

"Oh, _oh_, right." She responds; her voice muted to a quiet agreement. _What else is she supposed to say? What can she say? _Ally guesses she's contending with the idea, but she knows better than to reveal anything. This is important, crucial, in order to move on or at least stop alluding that everything is alright, when it's not, when he's cracking inside. Dez needs to let her in and have this—have this catharsis. She takes a deep breath.

"It was a plane crash or something. I got a phone call and the—they told me that they crashed into the ocean and that was it. It was somewhere in the Pacific Ocean and they were just coming back from a trip from my grandmother and they, they never usually travel and—" his voice cracks, his eyes shut and his hands clamp the sheets in his grasp. Her hands find his like an easy puzzle—no struggle, no hesitance—and she tightens them between her fingers. Dez flashes his eyes open achingly, with some kind of fear or timid sense. "I told Austin when it happened, but I just—I just couldn't tell anyone else. I couldn't let him tell anyone else. I needed—I needed to just pretend that my parents were still alive, _somewhere,_ _some_ place."

He cracks and his head falls into Ally's chest, before she can actually tell herself not to let it hurt.

_But it does. _So much.

_All the things that you wanted from me_

Dez asks her to stay just for a little longer, but then she thinks about Austin and how he's alone and she leaves—the wings that flutter flash her some guilt.

_All the things that you needed from me_

"Ally."

She turns to face Austin; hands clung to the towel that resides on her.

"It's Dez, he's—he needs to talk to you."

Her heart clutches in her chest and she feels something speed up in her—he wants to—needs to talk to her. _What's going on? What? _She worries he's not okay, and she worries he's cold, and she's worried that maybe he feels nauseous. Or maybe, maybe—suddenly everything in her goes frigid. She can't talk to him, because whatever it is, she won't be okay. She won't be okay, because…_because_… she can't.

_She can't be in love with someone who's dying—she just can't._

_Oh, darling, make it go away_

Her heart stops, when she hears he fell into a coma during surgery.

_Just make it go away_

"Dez," she starts, her voice filled with vacancies.

She doesn't hear anything or anyone, only the beeping of the machinery tied to him through wires. Her eyes are despondent, a void filled with hopelessness. She had promised she would save him and she couldn't even do just that. The gaze she holds grazes over his unresponsive stance and her heart clutches. The little hairs on his skin fall and rise every now and then; it makes her think back to when he played with her strands underneath the sheets. It makes her think of when he told her she felt much like a teddy bear. It makes her think of everything he did that she could never give. It just constantly fills her with this pathetic feeling of heartbreak that she should have replaced with shame and she kicks herself mentally just for it.

"I—I—I'm sorry." Her voice cracks softly. The water in her eyes sliding down the bridge of her nose. "I couldn't save you."

She loops his hand in hers, softly, feebly, and tightens it when the response doesn't come. _Why isn't he answering? Why isn't he talking? God, just talk, I—I need you, Dez. _

"It's my fault, I understand—I get it! Just wake up and _talk!_" She shouted, tears simmering down her protruding cheeks. Her heart palpitates rapidly, almost rapaciously and she's just asking that he may wake—not for her, or for Austin, or for Trish, for himself. "Dez, stop it. Stop it." Her voice lowers and the veins in her hands sharpen as her grip grows tighter. The cries in her throat become louder and she looks to the machine as if she's looking at him. The lines go up and down, and they splatter through this cycle like messy paint. She comes closer to realizing that it doesn't seem like a good sign.

His thin hands grow colder underneath her palm. She breathes just at that.

"Dez," she swallows, "you see you can't die, because—because…I love you."

The lines on the machine fall flat, like the fall of a sunset. Ally feels her heart stop beating and she presses a hand to her chest, but she just can't find the beat.

He's dead. _She's dead._

* * *

**AN:**

The whole time I was writing this I was like _don't kill Dez, don't kill Dez—_but I killed him. I'm sorry. _Really_. I just felt that if he stayed alive this story would not make much sense in the end, and really, it wouldn't. The lyrics were hitting somewhere totally different, so I had to kill my most favorite character OKAY. You think this doesn't hurt and it does, it really pains me. _Huge sigh._

The song is called "This Woman's Work" by Greg Laswell, I think? Google isn't doing such a good job right now so.


End file.
